Chapter 4
A cute little girl with fresh light green eyes and short, dazzling golden hair resembling Heivan. But despite being only five years old, there was always a shadow over her face.
Just like now. Flitta only blinked nervously and looked at Heivan, too frightened to even think of running into his arms or whining affectionately.
Heivan was no different. He simply gazed at his young daughter with an indifferent expression.
He didn’t even think to ask if she was feeling better after being sick.
They were both awkward and distant toward each other, once again confirming the emotional distance between father and daughter. It was at that moment Isabella interjected again.
“Flitta was sick? Oh my, if I’d known earlier, I would’ve brought someone from the palace. Flitta, were you very sick? Now that I look, your face is quite pale.”
Her voice was gentle, but the look in her eyes as she looked at Flitta was anything but. The girl grew even more frightened and hid behind her nanny.
Isabella’s expression grew colder at the child’s behavior, but she quickly forced a smile and turned to Heivan.
“Flitta seems uncomfortable around me. I’ll have to visit more often and get closer, Heivan.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Heivan flatly rejected her words. He added as if to make his point clearer.
“And I’d appreciate it if you refrained from coming without notice like today. It’s not proper to stay in someone’s home without informing the owner, especially when they are not present.”
“H-Heivan! How can you say that!”
Isabella’s face stiffened, then tears welled in her eyes.
“I know it was improper, but I only did it because I wanted to be closer to you. Why can’t you understand that?”
“……”
“Who else can I rely on but you, Heivan? Since Reviers—no, the late king—passed away so suddenly, I’ve been so alone and afraid. If you knew how lonely I am, you wouldn’t speak to me so coldly.”
She dabbed at her tears with a handkerchief, appearing pitiful and sorrowful. But Heivan’s gaze remained cool and detached. In fact, the corner of his mouth twisted slightly in disdain.
“……I didn’t know the late queen consort relied on my brother that much.”
“Of course she did. I trusted only him when I came to the capital.”
“And yet, you spoke of remarriage before his body had even cooled.”
“Th-That’s—!”
Isabella was left speechless. She parted her lips in panic, but Heivan merely scoffed and turned away. At that moment, his eyes met Flitta’s, who had been watching them both.
She did look more worn than usual—probably due to her cold. Her once rosy cheeks had grown pale. Heivan observed her closely. Though he was often described as indifferent, even toward his own child, that was never truly the case.
She was his child.
Even though he had no memory of her, he wasn’t irresponsible enough to neglect his own blood.
Ignoring Isabella, who was about to speak again, Heivan turned to Flitta and spoke.
“I heard you’re feeling much better. Your fever’s gone too.”
“……”
Flitta didn’t respond verbally, just clutched her nanny’s skirt tightly and gave a small nod. The nanny looked down at her and called out sternly.
“My lady, you must answer His Grace properly and out loud.”
“……Mm.”
Flitta looked even more frightened, tightening her grip on the nanny’s skirt.
“My lady.”
Worried that Heivan might grow angry, the nanny tried to gently pry the girl’s hand away. But Heivan spoke first.
“That’s a relief.”
He didn’t scold her. In truth, he didn’t think the child had done anything wrong. Wasn’t it too much to expect so much from someone so young? She was still just a child.
But he didn’t voice these thoughts. He merely responded in a dry tone.
Perhaps that simple response comforted Flitta a bit. Her green eyes blinked up at him, and her lips moved.
“……Yes.”
She answered in a tiny voice, then quickly buried her face in the nanny’s skirt, her small body shivering as if she’d done something tremendous.
“I’ll be leaving now.”
Isabella, who had been watching Heivan look at Flitta, bit her lip and finally spoke. But Heivan neither stopped nor persuaded her to stay. He merely bowed slightly in farewell, then turned to the nanny and spoke in a low voice.
“Take the child upstairs.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The nanny, who had remained silent as if holding her breath, finally spoke like someone who had been granted permission. She then took Flitta upstairs to her room.
Heivan watched them go in silence, until he heard a sharp sound of someone turning heel. He didn’t need to look to know it was the former queen consort.
Smirking coldly, he was about to return to his study when someone suddenly came to mind and made him stop.
“Your Grace?”
The butler asked curiously, but Heivan, furrowing his brow, turned to look at the stairs. He caught a glimpse of the child being carried up by her nanny.
Flitta’s eye color wasn’t like his. They shared the same golden hair, but her eyes seemed to take after her mother.
Light green eyes.
But just like he had no memories of the child, he had no recollection of the woman who gave birth to her.
The only thing Heivan remembered was that when he woke up, he was in a carriage—on a remote road near the kingdom’s border, far from the capital. And that was when he first met the newborn baby, supposedly his daughter.
“……”
He never doubted the child’s origin. Most of the people in the carriage were from the late queen’s family—the Duke of Theclan’s household—but not all of them.
Some served the queen consort but were deeply loyal to the royal family. They were clearly displeased with the child’s presence, yet they tried to protect her. It was not the sort of behavior one would expect unless the baby truly had royal blood.
Besides, the older the child got, the more her features resembled his—apart from the eye color.
Then why…
Why did that woman’s eyes come to mind?
Heivan recalled the woman he’d encountered earlier—the one who looked like a beggar, sickly and fragile. And yet, she had looked straight at him with dignity. Her green eyes resembled Flitta’s too much.
“Ridiculous.”
He muttered unconsciously and shook his head. It was absurd.
*
*
“How dare he treat me that way!”
As soon as she entered her bedroom in the royal palace, Isabella furiously ripped off her gloves.
“Your Majesty the Queen—ah!”
A maid who approached her was struck in the face by the flying glove. The jewel on the glove had cut her cheek, causing blood to trickle down. But she had no time to wipe it away—she was too busy trying to calm Isabella’s fury.
“Please, calm yourself, Your Majesty.”
“You keep saying ‘former queen’—what do you mean, former?! Are you saying I, Isabella Gwenters, should step down and be treated like that already?!”
“No, not at all! That’s not what I meant, Your Majesty!”
The maid fell to her knees, trembling. Dust from the carpet stained her dress, but she had no time to worry about that.
“I’m sorry. I was careless and upset Her Majesty.”
The maid bit her tongue to stop the words ‘former queen’ from slipping out again. She lowered her head until it touched the floor and apologized repeatedly.
Though she was the daughter of a baron, her status as a palace maid meant she wasn’t a mere servant. Palace maids were a different class altogether, and even the queen shouldn’t treat them poorly.
Yet Isabella acted toward palace maids no differently than she had toward house servants back at the duke’s estate.
It was a testament to the power of the Duke of Theclan—and to Isabella’s impulsive, arrogant nature.
“Whew…”
After throwing her tantrum, Isabella finally sat on the sofa, somewhat calmer. She glanced at the maid, then frowned.
“You’ve stained the floor with your blood.”
“…I-I’m sorry.”
The maid tried in vain to wipe the blood from her cheek. Isabella gave her a contemptuous look and spoke again.
“Send someone to the Theclan estate immediately.”
